Yet another disappointment to credit Devlin for…
Sighing, I shake my head and cross to my paperback stacks. I sit on the floor and trace my finger over the spines to pick out something suited to lose myself in until Mom gets home.
I don’t have as many as I’d like. If I could, I’d fill my room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. But we don’t have the space, so I limit myself to only titles I want to hold on to the most. The books I don’t love, I donate to the free book exchange shelf at the Ridgeview library.
My finger pauses on a biography of Frida Kahlo. The corner of my mouth lifts. Perfect.
I’ll read anything, but books on art and artists are among my favorites.
Picking out my book, I flop on my futon, dragging a pillow over to prop myself on.
The racket of the front door snaps me out of reading Frida’s biography.
“I’m home, Blair!” Mom calls from the main room.
I roll off the futon and flip my book over to save my place before heading out of my room.
Mom is at the sink washing her hands. She finishes, then turns and holds her arms out to me.
The light blue waitress uniform hangs from her thin frame more than usual, and it makes a pang of worry spear through me. Her brown hair is tied into a low bun, but a few gray fly aways fall around her face. Her skin has a waxy quality that I don’t like one bit, and her blue eyes are sunken with bags beneath.
She’s been working way too hard lately.
“Hey, how was work?” I step into her arms and give her a tight squeeze, tucking my head under her chin.
This is our ritual when she comes home from work. When I hit puberty, the hormonal imbalance made me an asshole and I told her it was stupid. She always insisted, and now I live for her hugs. For a few seconds, I don’t have to be the strong one between us.
“Work was good.” Mom smooths a hand over my bun and drops a kiss on top of my head. “I brought you home a slice of apple pie. It’s in the fridge.”
“Thanks. Want me to make some tea? We’ll split it.”
I rummage through the cabinet where we keep tea, instant coffee, and some ancient lemonade mix that I’m pretty sure has crystallized into a singular mass. I hold on to it because that shit would hurt if I chucked it at the drunkard two trailers over who tries to enter our trailer every few days. I like to be prepared because I don’t trust him if he ever makes it in here.
“You can have it, sweetie.”
Mom works her fingers into her shoulder, a grimace twisting her features. I abandon the tea bags on the counter and guide her into a seat at our tiny bistro table in the corner. Her protest doesn’t last long once I rub her shoulders to massage out the aches and pains of standing on her feet at the diner.
“We’re splitting it.” I bend to kiss her on the cheek and continue taking care of her discomfort. “Do you have a shift Saturday morning? I was thinking we could make pancakes.”
Weekend pancakes are one of the few treats we have kept alive since I was a kid. No matter how little we have, we treat ourselves to a homemade pancake breakfast.
Mom sighs, tipping her head back into my stomach. “Yes, hun. Sorry. What about on Sunday?”
“Sure, don’t worry,” I assure her gently. “There’s no rush on pancakes.”
Mom taps her nails on the tabletop. Her red polish is chipped. “But after, it might be my last shift for a bit. They’re changing the waitress shifts around.”
“What?” My insides go icy and I bounce my eyes from Mom to the messy stack of bills by the toaster. “Why? You’ve been there for long enough that you should have seniority over shift choices, they can’t just—”
“Blair.” She pats my hand and I loosen my tense grip on her shoulders. “I’m going to go lay down, I think. It’s late and I’m tired.”
The words hit me like a slap, though she spoke quietly. “Of course. Sorry, Mom.”
“It’s okay.” She releases a soft groan as she stands. Her hand cups my cheek. I’ve never seen her face so pale and colorless. The weariness around the corners of her eyes makes my heart hurt. I’m worried her health is declining faster than we’re prepared to handle. I’ve already had to take her to the doctor before school. “Have the pie, okay?”
Working as hard as she does is destroying her, tearing away little pieces bit by bit. Despite our shitty lot in life, she still manages to find a warm smile for me.
“Yeah,” I rasp. “Get some rest, Mom.”
She hums and tucks a stray piece of limp brown hair behind her ear. I flick my nails together, a terrible nervous habit that I know she hates. I stop and lace my fingers together before I upset her.
My stomach tenses as I watch her slow retreat into the shadows of the hall. A moment later, her bedroom door clicks shut.
When my shaking knees give out, I collapse into the chair at the bistro table, cradling my head in my hands.
She’s getting worse.
Dad did this to her. First it was stress, but now I’m not so sure. Can stress slowly kill someone, sucking away their life force like a parasite over the span of years? I chew my lip, wishing I could see Dad right now. I’d scream my head off at him for being so irresponsible and selfish. Then I’d punch the bastard.
Men are such untrustworthy worms, the whole rotten lot of them.
I don’t know what to do. The bills are already so much to handle. If she collapses like she did last year, the medical bill from the emergency room is going to destroy us.
I’d quit school and get a job myself, but I’m on scholarship at Silver Lake High School. Attending the school alone is enough to open doors for me I previously believed were jammed shut for life. Graduating from Silver Lake High will be the difference between Mom and I struggling to eke by the rest of our lives and the chance at a full ride to any college I want.
Devlin better not screw me over.
My eyes burn as I flick my watery gaze over to the window, searching for flashing red and blue.
I wait for so long, my body grows stiff. The cops never come.
Seven
Blair
Nothing has happened yet.
I held out through the weekend, classes on Monday, and all of today—nothing.
Waiting for the shoe to drop is giving me an early ulcer. Not even the fresh mountain air can settle my nerves.
Devlin and I share Mr. Coleman’s English class together, but he ignored me while I ended up shooting glances his way two days in a row.
Part of me wishes he would make his move, because Mom and I need money as soon as possible, but another part of me has been walking around the sprawling campus of Silver Lake High School like an attack will come from any corner.
After the last period of the day let out, I went to the athletic fields behind the bleachers and beyond where the soccer team trains. It’s the outer field where the track and field teams like to hold practice.
The track coach blows her whistle and the girls take off for meter dashes. I tug a fistful of grass from the spot where I’m watching from, a far enough distance that they won’t be weirded out.
After all, I’m not on their track team anymore.
The mid-afternoon sun keeps me warm. I lean back on my hands and cross my stretched legs in front of me. The baggy sleeves of my secondhand button-down shirt droops down my arms.